


Burnout

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, M/M, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots, Techie talk, speech therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: A malfunctioning speech-therapy bot goes in for repairs. His mechanic finds that this bot's highly specialised mouth-- and his sensory processor-- have been put to a lot of uses that aren't in the instruction manual.
Relationships: Mechanic/Lucas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	Burnout

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted to Tumblr in 2015.

"Huh. Pretty fancy." I push my thumb into the bot's mouth; it opens obligingly, revealing a row of perfect little teeth. A pink tongue twitches at the touch of my fingers. When I withdraw, my fingertips are moist with saliva.

"Top of the line, when I was made."

The bot dimples a smile at me. His features move smoothly and naturally, and the delicate pink of the synth skin around his lips and mouth speak to me of an obscene amount of money. "And when was that?"

He shrugs. "Four or five years ago."

I raise an eyebrow. "Four _or_ five years ago? You're not sure?"

I get that sweet little smile again. An AI package with expressions like that must have cost a _fortune._ "One thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven days, sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes and fifty seconds. But I'm supposed to be personable and helpful, not weird and robotic." He shifts on my worktable, a sort of movement that I'm sure is just part of his 'pretend I'm a real person' programming but only serves to show me what a cunningly crafted machine he is. "Some of the people I work with have problems with anxiety. The department head wants me to be approachable."

I look down at the paperwork that had accompanied the bot into my workshop. A 'Loquacious' model speech-therapy bot made by the Tatsuyama Company. A bot this nice, even five years out of the box, must have cost a pretty penny. He's currently registered to Yentig-Lise Academy-- it's the sort of private school where every student has their own personal ass-wiping bot. A semester's tuition at that place is well over what I make in a year as a mechanic, and I do fairly well for myself.

"Yeesh, no wonder they can afford to drop that kind of money on a therapy bot," I mutter.

"What's that?" The bot asks politely.

"Never mind." I shake my head. "All right, lay back, let me see your serial number. I just have to put a couple more notes on your paperwork before I can get started." He stretches out on my table, and I find the maker's mark and serial code I'm looking for printed on his inner thigh, right next to his secondary data port: L-UK15. "What do they call you?" I ask, setting my tablet down on his stomach and holding it steady with one hand while I type his info into it.

"Lucas."

I glance at the serial number again. Oh, 'Lucas.' Cute. "Says on your paperwork you were having trouble with fine motor movement?"

"Touching anything," Lucas says. "I've lost feeling in my hands and fingers completely. The response from my thighs and back is faint. Sitting down is difficult if I can't gauge how I should distribute my weight. Grasping anything without crushing or dropping it has become almost impossible."

"I see." I flip open the data port between his legs, revealing a round metal hole a little smaller than my fist. "Oh, thank god you've got a universal port, I didn't want to have to go digging for an adapter. I don't suppose you ran diagnostics already?"

"I'm not equipped for that sort of thing." He points to his abdomen. "All of the essential functions not related to the therapy program are housed in the secondary drive, down here, and I don't have my own data plug." He actually looks apologetic, and for a moment I almost believe he is. "I've been aware of the issue for months, but it didn't become a real problem until last week."

"AI so human it even procrastinates like one," I mutter, fitting my own data plug into his port. I push it in until it clicks into place, then link the other end to a terminal beside my worktable. "I have an inkling what your issue might be, but I can't know anything for sure until I run a diagnostic. That's gonna take a couple minutes."

Lucas lifts himself up onto his elbows to look at me. "Do you think it's serious?"

"Enh. Probably not. But give me some time before I go getting your hopes up."  
My diagnostic terminal is old, a handful of years older than Lucas is, but it's sturdy and reliable. It also looks like a plain old box, which is severely old-fashioned considering the models I've seen in other workshops lately.

Nowadays, everything has to talk back to you, everything has to have a face. Hooking one bot up to another and standing awkwardly around, the only meatbag in the room, while they talk silently to one another isn't my idea of a good time.

Besides, bots make mistakes more often than you'd think, and I feel more confident-- not to mention useful-- translating raw data myself rather than having some synth-faced smiley machine do it for me. I watch Lucas' data starts to scroll across the screen, jagged mountain ranges of line graphs that represent all of his innermost workings. Laying on his back on the table again, Lucas shivers and closes his eyes.

"That mouth of yours," I say as I wait for my terminal to load the next round of numbers, "Is that stock? I've only ever seen that kind of detail on modded bots."

Lucas licks his lips; he knows I'm watching. "All my parts are stock. Any kind of legal modifications you'd want to make on a speech therapy bot have already been included. In order to properly mimic human speech-- and that's mimic it, not just provide hi-def audio like most bots do-- I have to have moving parts that are as close to human as technology allows."

"So, lips and a tongue. And teeth?"

"They're in a standard position right now, but I can move them into different configurations depending on the client I'm with. So that my mouth matches theirs," Lucas smiles. "I can mimic and correct lisps, whistles, stutters, you name it."

"Man, my school had a medibot when I was a kid, but it was the old FL-0R3N5 model, it didn't even have synth skin. The thing terrified me."

"Do I terrify you?" Lucas is still smirking at me.

I look down at him, on his back on my worktable, legs bent at the knees and spread wide, my data plug locked into him. "I'd be a little pathetic if I were afraid of a busted therapy bot," I mutter, and turn back to my terminal. I flick through the new set of graphs, then find the little group of numbers I'm looking for. "Yep, there it is. That's what I thought it would be."

Lucas' smile vanishes. I feel the tiniest lift of satisfaction. "What is it?"

"Your sensory processor's giving me pretty weak responses. It might be trying to burn out." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching my fingers move across my terminal's keyboard. "A four year old processor shouldn't need replacing-- they usually last around seven years, with normal use."

"What kind of use isn't normal?"

I shrug. "You been reading a lot of books in Braille?"

He shakes his head. "No. Nothing like that." He looks at me, then away. "What would it take to replace it?"

"A lot. I'm sure your school can afford the cost, but to get to your SP I'd have to crack open your chassis and that takes time, not to mention a lot of elbow grease."

Lucas opens his mouth; I hold up a finger. "But I don't wanna just break out the blowtorch if I don't need to," I go on. "It might work fine with a little adjusting. I can run some more tests and see if I can't get it back up to a functional level. If that doesn't work, _then_ we'll talk about replacement." I've already brought up information for Lucas' sensory processor on my screen; increasing or decreasing the sensitivity is as simple as typing in a few numbers. "I'm going to push the numbers a little and try to get your functions back to where they were before. Just tell me when it feels right."

With a few keystrokes, I set the terminal so that it'll increase Lucas' sensitivity by a half-point with each tap of a key. I keep one hand on the keyboard, watching the numbers on the terminal screen climb steadily higher. My other hand is resting on the synth-skin of Lucas' thigh. "Feel anything yet?" I ask after a few moments.

"Not really. A little bit of pressure."

"Wiggle your fingers for me?" I glance over, and he waves. "Any feeling there?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

I raise the sensitivity five more points, then ten, with similar results. At twenty points above standard, I pinch him hard enough that his synth skin blanches and puckers for a moment before shrinking back to normal. Normally, a bot would jerk away from something deliberately trying to harm it-- if it can feel it happening. Lucas watches me pinch him twice more without so much as a wince.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter. "Maybe it _is_ burnt out."

I turn back to the terminal, jabbing at the keyboard and jacking up the sensitivity. It leaps from twenty to one hundred and ninety points above standard. The stat graphs jump; Lucas jerks, gasping. "Ahh-- _ahh!"_

"Geez, finally!" I reach out for Lucas, only to find him flat on his back and panting on my worktable. "Felt that, didn't you?" I put my hand on his thigh, sliding it up towards his knee. Lucas writhes under my touch, his back arching up off of the worktable, mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish.

I've never seen a bot react this way. There's no reason to program a bot to feel pain beyond what it needs to move away from danger. But as I trail my fingers over Lucas' skin and watch him shudder under my touch, fingers clenching into fists, I realize it isn't _pain_ he's feeling.

"Alright, well," I lift my hand, watching his chest heave as he pulls cool air into his system. "At least we know it works. I'll turn it down a little, and we can work backwards from--"

"Please." He levers his arms under himself, sits up to look at me. "Please, not yet. Don't-- don't turn it down yet."

I turn to face him. Stare him down. Usually not the best idea, since bots don't need to blink, and only do so to keep from making people uncomfortable. But instead of meeting my eyes, he looks away, shoulders rounding inwards. Sheepish, his programming is telling me. Shy. I know he's not _really_ capable of feeling either. He reaches for my wrist, laying his fingertips on it and gently tugging my hand back towards him.

He wants me to touch him again.

Bots don't _want_ anything.

He looks at me again, with the flutter of his eyelashes and the flush of his cheeks and the curve of his lips looking so _real,_ and in some other sane universe I switch off his sensory processor, pull out my data plug and send him home with a referral to another mechanic.

I drag my hand over his skin, high on his thigh. He shudders, eyes closing, shoulders relaxing. My fingers trace the lines of his chassis running from his collarbone to his hips, then in a wide loop around the port that my plug is still locked into.

On the inside of Lucas' thigh, opposite his maker's mark, I find a little ridge several inches long where the layers of his synth skin overlap. Most manufacturers will secure synth skin like this, so that the edges won't pull or gap apart when flexed. Two layers of sensors with his processor jacked up as high as it is means that the sound he makes when I touch it is obscene. His mouth opens wide in a groan and he hunches forward, hands fisting in my shirt. He presses his face against my shoulder, sucking in a long breath. I hear the whirr of his internal cooling fan kick on-- usually reserved for dire emergencies-- and his next pleading moan comes with a breath of heated air that smells like a furnace. I put a hand to his chest, pushing him gently away. "Okay, that's enough. You're gonna overheat."

"No, _no,_ don't stop." Lucas' face is very close to mine, his breath still fever-hot against my skin. Who designed an AI for a therapy bot that included this kind of expression? "My internal temps are fine, nowhere _near_ critical-- _ah--"_

I've decided the best way to stop his whining is to press my lips to his throat. In the process, I find that synth skin tastes a little like plastic and feels warm and spongy against my tongue. I can also feel the hum of Lucas' voice while he says all kinds of meaningless things like 'more' and 'please, yes' that were doubtless embedded into his AI by some very lonely programmer.

Lucas shivers against me. With no rush of blood, no buildup of hormones, I wonder how far he wants me to go, how far I can push him before he asks me to stop. His body is warm, and his abdomen, where he keeps his secondary processors, is almost too hot to touch. But I want to know. I have to know. And there's a certain pleasure in listening to both his moans and his internal fans ramping up when my fingers find the ridge of doubled-up synth skin between his legs again.

He presses and then bucks against my hand, a sort of shivering twitch accompanied by a sound that's human and animal at the same time, made possible only by his very detailed, very expensive mouth. I pull him closer, sliding him across the worktable and nearly to the edge. He turns to me, his voice going high into a whimper, and his lips brush against my cheek. Delicate and soft, warmed by his breath, they spark more than just curiosity in me and in the next moment I'm kissing him.

I think I expected him to pull away. The same basic programming that makes a bot avoid personal harm will tell it to keep a few inches of space between itself and a human's _face,_ for pete's sake. But he hadn't pulled away when I'd kissed his neck earlier, and he wasn't putting any distance between us now: he slides his arms around my shoulders to pull me closer, tilting his head and opening his mouth to mine. His tongue feels real slicking against mine, and the hitch of his breath, the little hum he makes are real, too.

I pull away, make the mistake of looking down at his parted lips, and kiss him again. It takes several moments before I can scrape my senses back together from wherever I've flung them so I can break apart from him again. He's panting, the heat of his breath making me sweat. I keep my eyes firmly on his. "This isn't the first time you've done this, is it?"

No shy, downcast gaze this time: his lips curl up at the corners in a smile and he shakes his head. The questions rush forward-- when? Who? How often?-- but he pulls me into another kiss before I can ask them.

I'm not a bot fucker. Unlike some of my peers, I became a mechanic for the money and because I'm good with machines, not because I find quivering tangles of wires sexy. Part of me knows that Lucas is just that-- wires and circuitboards and clever programming-- but another part, a more insistent part that's growing harder and pressing more snugly against my pants with every heartbeat, is telling me that Lucas' skin is warm, his mouth is soft, and the sounds he makes when I touch him are more than human enough for me.

I take his wrist, pulling his hand away from my shoulder and down to cup the hard bulge of my cock in my pants. His eyes flick to mine. The way his fingers work over the fabric speak of experience, and I don't know if that makes me want him more or less.

No, I _do_ know. I thread my fingers through his hair, kiss him hard, suck on his bottom lip, then his earlobe, then his throat while he uses strong and nimble fingers to unbutton my pants and bring my erection into his hand. He thumbs the drop of pre-come off of the head, stroking his palm down the underside of my cock and then back up. His fingers curl around the shaft and I pull him closer so that I can feel my cock sliding against his belly, the thick cables of the data plug snaking down between us.

His first strokes are slow, his grip tightening and relaxing, his mouth wandering from my cheek to my neck. I suck a breath in between my teeth, hold it, let it out in a long sigh. It feels good, more than good, but it isn't all that I want. No speech-therapy bot, no matter how _advanced,_ comes pre-programmed knowing how to give a handjob. This was taught to him the old fashioned way, through vigorous and frequent repetition. It probably hadn't hurt that Lucas seems to be a particularly eager student.

And with a mouth like that, no one in their right mind would teach him to use his hands _first._

I take his chin in my hand, trace my fingers over his lips. "Do you know what I'm going to do?" I ask him. Of course he knows. It's probably the first thing anyone thinks about when they lay eyes on him. "I'm going to fuck this pretty mouth of yours," I tell him anyway, because I like the way it sounds. I like the way his lips close around my thumb, too, the movement of his tongue on my skin.

His hand tightens briefly around my cock, and then I'm lifting him down from the worktable. Standing, I'm nearly a head taller than him, which doesn't matter much because I immediately push him down on his knees. I can hear the metal of the data plug between his legs scraping on the tiled floor of my workshop and I don't care because I'm watching him, watching his lips parting for the head of my cock, watching the tip of his tongue darting forward for a tentative taste as if he's never done this before. Bullshit. I fist one hand in his hair, jerk his head back and push my cock down his throat, withdrawing and thrusting back in twice before he can even get a hand around my shaft to steady himself. Then his mouth closes firmly around my cock and I have to grab the edge of the worktable when my knees go weak.

His mouth slides slickly down my shaft all the way to the base; I can feel the hard seam in the back of his throat where the synthetic tissue of his mouth meets up with the steel alloy of his chassis. I stroke my hand down through his hair, sighing shakily, trying to hold myself back. He looks up at me through his eyelashes, lips stretched wide around my cock, jaw working and head bobbing as he sucks.

That fucking mouth is pushing me closer to orgasm, too quickly. I put a hand on his forehead, push him away, taking deep breaths and trying to let myself level out while the tip of my cock rests on his bottom lip. His eyes meet mine again for a moment and he tilts his head, leaning forward to suck the base of my shaft.

There are things that this bot can do with his tongue that make me grateful I have a firm grip on the worktable: it twists and rolls, undulating and then pressing with surprising strength against every sensitive part of me. I order him to open his mouth again for me and he does. His smug smile is hardly more than a twitch, but I make him pay for it, groaning and gritting my teeth as I ram my cock into the back of his throat again. My cock twitches and he whimpers, pawing at me; I realize at the last moment that his system isn't built to take that sort of fluid and I pull out in time for the first spurt of come to splatter across his cheek and down his chin.

A beat of silence, broken by the metallic scrape of the data plug again as he gets to his feet. He wipes his face first with his hand, then with an oil-stained rag I give him. He's so quiet, eyes down and away from mine, mouth still, that I can't resist pulling him forward to kiss him again. His hand wanders down over my abdomen to touch my softening cock and I seize his wrist. "Ah-ah. Back on the table you go. We've still got work to do."

I help him back up onto the worktable-- another kiss, that fucking _mouth--_ and he lays back, knees bent, legs spread, looking up at me. I clear my throat, turning my attention to the terminal, but when I look over at him again, he's giving me that infuriating smile.

I slam my hand down on the keyboard. The sensitivity on Lucas' sensory processor shoots up to four hundred fifty five points above standard, making the graphs jump again, shooting right into the red. Lucas gasps, his back arching sharply, his moan echoing off the walls. The yogurt shop next door is going to hear him. I don't care. I pin him with my weight, my mouth on his, my hand working between his legs, stroking faster the more he shudders and bucks. He pulls away from me, turning his head to one side, his desperate "Ahh, ahh-- _anhh!"_ growing in pitch and volume until I kiss him to quiet his cries.

His muffled moans are accompanied by the sound of his fan ramping up again, a high-pitched whine straining to turn fast enough to keep him cool. He has his hands around my shoulders again, fingers digging in painfully, his feet sliding across the table as his hips buck in rhythm to the movement of my hand.

His body stiffens, a shudder moving through him. I press my fingers into that sensitive strip of skin, refusing to let up. I break the kiss, wanting to hear him moan for me again. His gasp rattles in his throat, accompanied by another full body shudder before he abruptly goes limp in my arms, eyes dark.

...Oh, _fuck._

Stupidly, I shake him, as if that's going to bring him around. I lay him flat on the table, putting a hand over his abdomen and then jerking away, shaking my fingers-- his synth skin is searing hot. Well, I _had_ heard the fan kick in.

I turn to the terminal. The screen is flashing the standard "please make sure the machine is turned on and the data plug is locked in correctly" message in green text. I've never forced a bot into a reboot cycle by accident before. Well, not like _this,_ anyway. And a reboot cycle is what I've got if I'm lucky. If I'm unlucky, I'm going to spend the next several years paying off the most expensive blowjob I've ever had.

I glance down at Lucas, then reach over to shut his eyes. His system is going to wait for his internal temp to get back down to normal before even attempting to restart, and that could take anywhere from several minutes to an hour.

Well, no use standing around chewing my nails about it. I'll give him some time to complete his reboot cycle and save my worries for when I can run another system check. I go outside for a cigarette.

I end up smoking three cigarettes, and yes, there was even a little nail-chewing involved. I stand in the alleyway behind my shop, watching water gurgle into the gutter, and can't help but smile thinking about Lucas' open, moaning mouth, his fingers and toes curling, his back arching up off of the table. Still not a bot fucker, but at least I'm beginning to understand the appeal of a mechanical mouth that could suck the zinc plating off of a fastenal bolt.

When I come in from the alley, Lucas' data is just beginning to trickle into my terminal again. It looks promising-- his temp is falling, good numbers from all of his parts except his sensory processor, which looks like it reset itself in the reboot. I let the terminal get most of the way through its system check before leaning over Lucas. "Feeling okay?"

"Yes," he says faintly, opening his eyes. "...Why did you stop?"

**Author's Note:**

> If you followed my Tumblr at all while I was still active, you might have occasionally seen me write about a character named "Gearhead" and his bot companion "Dios." This story takes place in the same universe. It was originally written as a piece for my now-defunct erotica blog, and came with some art courtesy of my brother.
> 
> I love robots. I am a SHAMELESS bot fucker.


End file.
